Confessions
by glitterburn
Summary: Van Helsing/Carl. Sequel to 'Corruption'. When Gabriel wants Carl to commit to their tentative relationship, Carl must face up to his past...


**Confessions**

Patience is a virtue, or so they say. For myself, I have never given it much heed. In my line of work we're coaxed, requested, ordered to go faster, not to dawdle. In my line of work, hastiness can be fatal; and yet I've never once considered being patient, to take my time over an experiment.

Perhaps that was why they failed so often, as was the case when I was trying for the fourth time to engineer a device that could transmit a man's voice into another such device, much like the invention of Mr Alexander Graham Bell, only without the need for wires.

I had asked Nuri, a Moslem gentleman, to help me. I had explained to him how one should use the apparatus, and then I activated my own hand-held device and waited for him to answer the call. Instead of Nuri's dulcet tones I heard a yelp and then a dreadful hissing noise, like snakes in a sluice gate. I dropped my device and ran across the laboratory to where Nuri was now kicking his apparatus against the wall. He had one hand covering his ear, and raged miserably as if we were all deaf.

Of course, we were not deaf; but he was. Only temporarily, I'm pleased to say; but there it was. My device had deafened him. It was not a good start to the day.

I removed the offending piece of machinery before Nuri could destroy it completely. I put it on my workbench and began to prise open the cover to see what I could salvage of the inner workings. It was as I was bent close over the intricate cogs and screws that I felt a presence beside me, and a voice said:

"No rest for the wicked, eh, Carl?"

I straightened up and gave him a nice, prim response. "No peace for the good, either, Van Helsing. What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

I let my gaze slide away from his deeply penetrating stare. He discomfited me more than almost any other man I'd met. "How can I help you?" I asked, louder than was necessary. I'd already been punished for neglecting to tell the Cardinal all the details of our previous conversations, and I had no wish to lose any further freedoms.

Van Helsing poked at the device on the bench. "What's this?"

"An experiment. A failure," I said, and to my horror, my words came out sounding bitter.

He looked up sharply on hearing my tone, and seemed as if he wanted to say something to me; but then Chen, the Buddhist monk at the next table, hissed a warning, and so he fell silent.

"Failure can be good for a man," Cardinal Jinette said as he approached. "It breeds humility; and this is a virtue that I consider to be very worthwhile."

He smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. "Down here in the laboratories, the men know little of the world. If they were more in society, then they would learn humility more readily. But they are called here, and so we, Van Helsing, who are much more in the world – we must endeavour to teach them the ways of the humble."

I bowed my head. "I'm not certain what's wrong with it," I began, but Jinette silenced me with a wave of his hand.

"No matter. It can wait. Van Helsing has no need of your inventions as yet. I came here to speak with him." He maintained the smile, but it seemed as if the muscles of his face resisted. The effect was a strange grimacing mask.

"Here I am," Van Helsing said cheerfully.

"Yes. Here you are." Cardinal Jinette gave him a hard stare. "I had to ask where you were, exactly. You really should not leave your quarters and go a-wandering. There are parts of the Vatican where entrance is forbidden to all save a special few."

Van Helsing gave him a cheeky grin. "Don't worry about me. I can look after myself."

"It is not you that concerns me." The cardinal turned to face me, and assumed a pleasant tone. "Carlo. Perhaps you would excuse us for a moment."

I grabbed my bits and pieces and shuffled them along the bench. "Certainly. Don't mind me."

Chen came over, ostensibly to help me with the broken device, but in reality to impart gossip. Now I know that I shouldn't listen to gossip, that it does a man ill to hear such things and it's even worse if he repeats them, but it can be damnably useful. And Chen was the best source of gossip in the whole of the Vatican. Or at least he was the most gentle. I was always amazed that the Inquisition hadn't tried to turn him.

"Jinette's been watching you," Chen whispered as we picked through the scattered components. "I heard that Van Helsing told you about your parents."

"Is nothing sacred?"

Chen grinned at me. "Not here. Ironic, isn't it?"

I sighed. "He did tell me. I didn't want to know; I didn't ask him to find out."

"Apparently, he demanded the information." Chen leaned closer, his voice dropping to become barely audible. "He went to the top."

My hands trembled. I dropped a spring and a cog onto the table. "You mean - he asked…?"

Chen nodded slightly. "Way, way over Jinette's head. And you know how he hates not being in control."

"Yes." I did know. I shuddered. "Why did he do that?"

Chen gave me a bright-eyed look. "That's what we all want to know, too."

"Well, I would hardly know about that," I said, fumbling the comparatively simple task of picking up the spring and the cog. "I mean, Van Helsing is a law unto himself! Who knows what goes on inside that head of his? I suppose he felt that he should - should express his thanks to me, for helping him out as regards his memory in these past few weeks. It's perfectly possible, isn't it? You would do the same thing, wouldn't you, Chen?"

He smiled gently. "It's quite all right, Carl. Your secret is safe with me."

"Secret? I have no secret!" I dropped the cover of the device, and it bounced from the bench to skitter across the floor. I'd raised my voice in protest, and – greedy, starved-for-gossip religious that they are – all of my laboratory colleagues close by turned around to stare at us.

"Oh, dear," I mumbled, and bent to pick up the fallen components. I hoped that my red face would be attributed to the blood rushing to my head when I'd leaned down. I don't suppose anybody was fooled, not even for an instant.

When I straightened up again, Chen winked at me and tapped the side of his nose. "I won't tell a soul," he promised.

My heart sank. Whatever he thought my 'secret' was would be all over the Vatican by Compline.

Cardinal Jinette chose that moment to end his conversation with Van Helsing. He looked back over his shoulder at Chen and I, and enquired delicately, "Secrets, Carlo? What secrets are these?"

I clutched the spring so tight in my palm that the tiny coils dug into the flesh. "Nothing, your eminence. No secrets here."

He gave me a searching look. "Hmm. If you are in need of a confessor…"

"No, your eminence. That won't be necessary," I said. "Chen and I were just – talking. About things."

The cardinal frowned. "So you have no secrets?"

I lifted my chin a little, and assumed an innocent expression. "No."

* * *

Of course, what I should have done following that incident was to go straight to church and find myself a priest to hear my confession. But I didn't. It was not hard to justify the telling of a lie – or several – especially when I believed that it was for the greater good. Well, my greater good. And perhaps Van Helsing's, if truth be told after so many lies.

I didn't want to ask why he'd demanded the information regarding my parentage. He had told me at the time that it was best that I knew, so that at least one of us had no secrets hidden in our past waiting for us to stumble. He had assumed that my life within the abbey had been innocent, that I had grown to adulthood and into the habit of a Franciscan friar with few worries and little attention to the outside world. He was only partially correct.

And then he had finished his silly, feeble explanation by kissing me. As if that made any sense!

It had been safer for me to avoid him, after that encounter. As Chen had said, the cardinal was always watching. In fact, Jinette had instructed me to spend a month in contemplation of the works of the Church Fathers. He knew that I found their theology dull. I preferred the early medieval thought of my fellow Franciscans, Roger Bacon and William of Occam. They at least were practical men. But I did not dare disobey the cardinal, and so I had applied myself to the task with uncertain diligence.

I must confess that Origen bored me to tears. I knew that his writings were a particular favourite of Cardinal Jinette, so I endeavoured to learn a few of his maxims so I could drop them casually into conversation. Yes, yes: I know it's terribly underhand and not at all becoming for a man of God to attempt to curry favour so shamelessly, but I thought it would cause no harm. And if I repeated the phrases often enough, their higher meaning might just permeate my conscious mind. Or so I hoped.

Origen's worthiness at least kept my thoughts away from Van Helsing. That all changed, however, when I took down St Augustine's _Confessions_. Of course, I had studied him before, but only in passing. His teachings formed the mainstay of another Order, and so we Franciscans were advised not to linger too long on St Augustine, although naturally he was preferable to the writings of St Dominic.

Anyway, what I found within the pages of the _Confessions_ was quite remarkable. A lusty life well-lived, with a sense of regret for the woman and child he had abandoned for the religious life; frank accounts of the battle between his desires and his longing for God… It was all so fascinating. No wonder we had only read St Augustine in extracts.

It was also very inspiring. St Augustine's fortitude impressed me. I knew that many, if not all, of the saints were tempted into wickedness, but too often it seemed that they pushed the distractions aside, or overcame the lure easily, without giving it much thought. At least St Augustine suffered for his temptations, and railed against God and himself as he struggled to find his way through the darkness.

I wished I had the courage of St Augustine. He had ended his days as the Bishop of Hippo. I doubted that I would be so well rewarded, or even remembered. The work we did for the Order was kept secret, and it was only within the laboratory that a man could claim his expertise or garner praise for his invention. I supposed that that was what Cardinal Jinette meant by humility. We knew our place.

St Augustine had known his place, too; but he had not been so willing to bow to it. I was so taken with his book that I sneaked a copy out of the library and concealed it beneath my cot, and then sequestered myself in my cell for several days until I had made a fair copy of it. By the end of that time, I probably knew every sentence by heart.

I thought to myself that, if the blessed St Augustine found it difficult to fight the temptations of the flesh, then it was hardly surprising that I found it almost impossible. I had had strange dreams, of course, the kind that when one awakens, the sheets are wet beneath the body – but I had not expected to be so affected by a kiss. I did not know whether it affected me because it was a kiss, or whether it was because of the man who had kissed me.

It was all very confusing, and I thought that not even St Augustine could help me with this.

* * *

By the time I had more or less decided to go to confession, the great bells of the abbey church began to toll, calling us to Conventual Mass. Chen and several of my other non-Christian colleagues remained behind in the laboratories, probably to gossip like old women in my absence. Cardinal Jinette had already gone ahead, and I could not see Van Helsing anywhere. I told myself that this was a good thing.

I scurried through the doors from the narthex, weaving my way through the line of Benedictine monks who were leading today's Mass. They had their hoods drawn up as they walked, and so I didn't know who to apologise to as I careered between them. At last I managed to find an empty space beside a Carmelite friar on one of the polished hardwood pews, and then I dropped onto my knees in quick obeisance to the high altar, clasped my hands together, and prayed.

By the time I finished my prayers, crossed myself, and rose to sit once more, I realised that Van Helsing had joined me. His thigh was tight against mine as we sat, and I tried surreptitiously to slide to the left, towards the Carmelite. The old friar gave me a startled look, and so I stopped moving.

"Carl, I need to talk to you," Van Helsing said in my ear.

"Not now," I hissed.

The Carmelite stared at us in disapproval, and then was distracted as the congregation stood for the entrance of the Abbot and the celebrants. I wondered where Cardinal Jinette had gone. He was obviously not taking Mass today. I craned my head behind me, to see if I could see him lurking amongst the congregation.

"He has gone to his office," Van Helsing told me, guessing whom it was that I sought. "He will not interrupt us here."

"With good reason," I exclaimed. "This is Mass, not Chapter!"

The Carmelite leaned close. "Shh!"

We fell into silence as the Hebdomad intoned the start of the liturgy. I sang the responses softly, under my breath. Van Helsing watched me, and so I was pleased when I could pull up my hood in prayer and hide my profile from him, if only for a short time.

The principal celebrant, Father Lorenzo, shuffled forwards to the centre of the choir and then raised his head, smiling in a lopsided but quite beatific manner. "Today," he cried, lifting his hands aloft, "we celebrate the feast day of St Cecilia, the patroness of musicians. A saint of whom we know absolutely nothing. As to why she may be the patroness of musicians, we know nothing about that matter, either."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Van Helsing smirk. I resisted the urge to elbow him into giving some respect to the occasion.

Father Lorenzo continued, "There are many saints of the Early Church about whom we know absolutely nothing, save that they were martyred in God's Name. And so let us give thanks to these holy men and women who refused the temptations of Satan and his agents on earth…"

I swallowed hard. Was Van Helsing a devil? He certainly tormented many of my thoughts, and the feel of him pressed against me on the pew was rather distracting. I could even smell him. I could smell the Carmelite on my other side, too, but he was easy to ignore, for his scent was of carbolic soap and worsted and ink. Van Helsing had an altogether different kind of scent, one of worn leather and cordite and the north wind.

I pulled myself together and concentrated on the rest of the Mass. Van Helsing did not go up to receive communion, but simply sat back and watched the rest of the congregation. I wasn't sure what to think of this, but then reminded myself that, as he had lost his memory, then we did not know whether Van Helsing was a Catholic or indeed, any kind of Christian. I was certain that he was – he knew too much Scripture and theology, far more than I did, in fact – but he had shown no recognition of the Offices. He did not know when to sit or stand or kneel.

Hurriedly I put him out of my mind. A complex conundrum he might be, but he was not mine to solve. Cardinal Jinette had been quite clear in his orders. I was only to assist in gathering information. The Inquisition would do the rest.

As the monks and priests filed out of the choir at the end of Mass, and as the congregation began to disperse, Van Helsing caught at my arm.

"I have to talk to you."

I tried to draw away from him as unobtrusively as possible. "Really, Van Helsing, I have nothing to say, and I'm sure that there's nothing that you could say to me that would be of interest…"

He made an impatient gesture. "Goddamn it, Carl! Stop whitewashing me."

"I beg your pardon?"

The image this sentence conjured was so strange that I actually stopped dead in the middle of the aisle. Van Helsing used this momentary inattention to grab my arm and propel me towards the confessionals that were set in a shadowy corner behind the choir stalls.

"Wh-what are you doing?" I gasped as he pulled aside the deep scarlet curtain and sat me down on the chair reserved for the confessor.

"Going to confession," he said, and then he pulled shut the curtain and stepped into the penitent's side of the box.

"But… But I can't! I'm not a priest!"

Even in the dim light and through the metal grille that separated us, I could see the expression on his face.

"You're a friar. That's damn close."

"Not in terms of your immortal soul!"

He laughed. "I'm not even certain that I have one anymore."

"All living things have a soul," I protested. "Even Satan has a soul."

"I thought he just stole souls."

"Maybe he has a shortfall." I was a little impatient. "How should I know! I'm not God. I'm not even a very good theologian. Perhaps I should ask Cardinal Jinette. He would hear your confession, and I'm sure he knows all about souls, too -"

Van Helsing snorted and said something I didn't quite catch, but it sounded rude. I was glad for the darkness of the confessional, as I was certain that a blush rose to my face.

"You should not insult the cardinal," I said softly. "He is a very holy man."

"The Hell he is."

I was so shocked that I used his Christian name. "Gabriel!"

There was a tiny silence between us, and then he said, "Forgive me, Carl. Only, I have wanted to talk to you for weeks now, and every time I seem to get close to you, Jinette turns up and fobs me off with one excuse or another."

I turned my head away from the grille. "Maybe I do not want to talk to you."

"C'mon. Of course you do." He leaned forwards, a looming shadow. "I was sincere when I told you about your parents…"

"The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, every one of them sincere," I said. "I know you asked the – someone high up in the Vatican. There was no need to do that. One of the genealogists would have been able to tell you."

Van Helsing snorted. "Yes, indeed. But I wanted you to be brought to the attention of those in the higher enclaves of power."

I was startled, and more than a little panicked; but I swallowed it down and said quietly, "You are not an altruist. Everything you do, you do it for a reason; and even if that reason does not come back to you, I cannot believe you are completely without self-interest of one kind or another."

"Oh, Carl," he sighed. "You are too good."

Privately, I doubted that. I sought after a reason for these unlooked-for attentions, and said hesitantly, "I suppose I am useful. To you, I mean. My inventions and – and…"

"And your knowledge of me," he added.

It sounded awfully intimate. I rushed to protest: "I know very little about you."

"But you know more than anybody else."

I winced. I was certain that the Inquisition knew more than I did.

Van Helsing's voice dropped to a whisper, so that I was obliged to move closer to the grille in order to hear him.

"Only you know that I kissed you."

I jerked away from the grille and nearly unbalanced the chair. "Pray do not speak of that!"

In a more normal tone of voice he said, "I am sorry if it caused you any distress. That was not my intention."

"Distress? _Distress?_" I babbled. "Van Helsing! It has not caused me distress, it has caused me – er, I mean – oh, damn it!"

"Sleepless nights?" he enquired.

I could picture his eyebrow raised sardonically.

"Not telling you."

There was another silent pause.

"I meant it, you know. The kiss."

I was sure that I could feel the warmth of his breath through the grille.

"Carl… I didn't mean to scare you." Now he sounded frustrated. "I thought we understood one another. That we could -"

"Become lovers?" I snapped out before I could stop myself.

His tone was detached when he replied. "In time, perhaps. I would not rush someone into doing what they did not wish to do; certainly I would not rush one that I had come to care about so much."

I sat in the darkness and absorbed this carefully. "Sometimes I think you must be a devil," I said at length.

He chuckled. "A devil with an angel's name."

"It would not be the first time."

"No, indeed." He sobered at that. "I am neither devil nor angel, Carl. I am just a man."

I sniffed. "You are not _just_ a man. You have survived experiences that would kill any normal human being, and on top of that, you claim to have lived for nearly two thousand years, at a conservative estimate."

"There's no need for sarcasm."

"I wasn't being sarcastic! I was just saying -"

"Carl. Stop trying to change the subject."

I fidgeted on the confessor's chair, and plucked at the grey fabric of my habit. "I've forgotten what we were talking about."

"You really are a dreadful liar."

"That's because I'm a friar. We don't tell lies." I stopped in confusion, aware that I did, and that I'd just uttered another falsehood. "Damn it. I know what I mean."

Van Helsing put his hand up to the grille. I wanted to cover it with my own, but resisted the temptation to do so. I could see the mane of his hair through the screen, and could imagine what it would feel like against my palms, my fingers.

As if he knew what I was thinking, he said softly, "Would it be so very bad for us to become lovers?"

"It is against the teachings of the Church," I said promptly.

"But it does not offend your sensibilities."

"No. I have read enough of the ancients to know that love between men can be a very noble thing," I replied.

He must have heard something in my voice, for his hand clutched at the grille separating us as if he meant to tear it down. "_Can be_, Carl? Are you suggesting -"

"I am suggesting nothing."

He growled. "You have some experience in these matters?"

I recoiled from his tone. "Of a sort. It is nothing. Not worthy of discussion."

"Forgive me, but I think it is of the utmost necessity that we discuss it." His voice was softer now, and silken tenderness covered the demand: "When last we spoke – before I kissed you – there was something… an inference – Did Jinette ever take advantage of your state?"

I was silent, and kept my gaze fixed on the curtain of the confessional.

Van Helsing cursed. "That explains a lot."

"Jinette is… possessive," I said, carefully.

"I've noticed." He relaxed away from the grille, giving me some space. "Will you tell me about it?"

I sighed. It was an unpleasant memory, and one that refused to leave me despite the repeated exorcisms of previous confessions. But Van Helsing was patient, and I was beginning to trust him despite myself, and so hesitantly I said, "When I was a child-oblate, I was tutored in part by Jinette. He was not a cardinal back then, but it was obvious even to us children that he was ambitious. He would shout at us if any of our number came to class untidy or late, or if we got even one answer wrong in our work. He said it would teach us loyalty and humility if we were all punished for the mistakes of the few."

Van Helsing nodded. "I would expect nothing less of the man. Go on."

"Well," I said, cautiously, "when we were a little older, he began to find fault with a few of us. One at a time, he would single us out in class, and he would test our knowledge of Scripture or edicts of religious reform. And when we got it wrong, we were punished."

Another silence, and then Van Helsing asked, "How?"

I shrugged in the darkness, even though I was certain that he could not see it. "I do not know what he did to the others, but he would beat me. He would put me over his knees or across the bench, and he would hit me with his hands. Never a cane – that was for use in class-time."

I took a deep breath to give the memories time to settle. The confessional seemed to shrink in on me, and I felt warm and dizzy. "For a while, he would insist that I took down my drawers. Without the barrier of clothing, it hurt all the more. He would punish me at least twice a week, muttering things under his breath that I would never be able to catch because once he started hitting me, all I could concentrate on was the pain and when it would end."

I could feel that my face was as fiery red with humiliation now as it had been when I was little more than a child. It was an effort to keep the tremble from my voice as I continued: "I was a good student, Gabriel. I did not deserve to be punished. I was naïve, innocent… I did not know for a long time – how could I? – that Jinette was enjoying what he did to me. That he took pleasure in it. Unholy pleasure."

Van Helsing had sunk into the darkness on the other side of the screen, but though I could not see him, I could hear him well enough when he asked, "Did he do anything else?"

My hands were twisted in my lap, tangled in the skirts of my habit. "I do not want to talk about it anymore."

"Carl -"

His voice sounded pleading. I had expected him to be disgusted, or even angry. Instead, he seemed to be sad. To turn his attention, I said, "I was not the only oblate he treated in such a fashion."

"You are the only one that matters to me."

I shook my head. "It does not signify. It is in the past. He watches over the others and I only to ensure that we do not speak of it. And now you have brought my existence to the attention of higher powers, when he has been so careful to hide me away… He will make my life difficult, Gabriel. Very difficult."

"That's not true," he said.

"It is. It must be," I said dully. "It cannot be otherwise."

"I can protect you."

I shrugged again. "How? He is a cardinal."

Van Helsing sighed. "Do you not understand, Carl? I wanted to bring you to the attention of the Holy Father and the senior cardinals so that you would be assigned to me when I begin in earnest my work for the Order."

"But," I said, confused, "but it is for Jinette to decide such matters."

"Jinette can – and will - be overruled."

"But we might not suit!"

I could see his smile through the grille. "We suit very well, you and I. You know we do."

I hung my head and scuffed at the floor of the confessional. I mumbled, "Surely you lead me into sin."

"Nonsense," he said as he got up and began to draw back the scarlet curtain. "I'm leading you to your freedom."

**end**


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